


no compasses, no signs

by defcontwo



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Coming Out, Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:33:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25699603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/defcontwo/pseuds/defcontwo
Summary: It's the summer of 2025 and they've spent almost the entirety of it together. Or: scenes from a new start.
Relationships: Kent "Parse" Parson/Jack Zimmermann
Comments: 34
Kudos: 132





	no compasses, no signs

**Author's Note:**

> I absolutely meant to finish this by July 4th but then pandemic brain happened, so now it's something else entirely. it's also unexpectedly horny for a fic with no actual sex; you can blame that on pandemic brain too. title from folklore because of course it is. 
> 
> as always, I do it all for you, discord pals. a special thank you goes out to Cakes for cheerleading me to the finish line on this. happy birthday, Jack Zimmermann. you're a mess but I love you anyways.

**_The Players’ Tribune_** | **Playing by my own rules**  
_Kent Parson, Hockey Player | July 15th, 2025_

So, I’m gay. 

If you’re a hockey fan, you’re probably having some kind of reaction to this news. If you’re not a hockey fan, you’re probably wondering….okay, but who the hell are you and why should I care? 

I’ll recap for you. My name is Kent Parson and I’m the Captain of the Las Vegas Aces. I’ve just capped off my 16th year in the league which is, I have to admit, an absolute trip to realize. I’m officially one of the old veterans, these days, and I’ve finally got the knee pain to prove it. 

And I’m gay. 

This isn’t news to me, even if it’s news to most of you. When I was 13, my mom sent me to a regular garden variety summer camp for three weeks over the summer in an attempt to hammer some semblance of well-roundedness into my hockey-obsessed brain. Those three weeks did not make me any less obsessed with hockey, but I did get to meet a cute boy with terrible floppy early 2000’s hair and kiss him by the lake after curfew. _That’s_ when I knew I was gay. 

The trouble is, I’d already fallen in love with hockey. That thunderbolt struck back when I was five and lacing up my skates for my first ever proper Tyke game. My teammates were milling around, goofing off, the way five year old kids are supposed to do, but all I could think about was the soft snick of blade against ice, the way it felt like I was flying when I was out there. That was it for me. I was a total goner. Stick a fork in me, I was done. 

And when it comes to hockey, I’m happy to say that today, at 35, I’m still as smitten as ever. 

Sometimes rookies will ask me, how do you handle the pressure during the big games? How do you just keep doing your thing, no matter what’s going on around you? I always tell them the same thing: don’t let anyone else decide how your game is going to go for you. Don’t listen to the media, don’t let the opposing team chirp you into getting sloppy or angry. You know your own rules, you know the game that you want to go out there and play. 

If there’s one thing that I’ve learned over my years as captain of the Aces, it’s that you have to know exactly who you are before you can run around trying to help anyone else. 

If you’ll indulge a bro some bragging, I’d say that game plan has worked out pretty well for me so far. I’ve got five Stanley Cup wins and two Olympic Gold Medals under my belt so far. There are individual awards thrown in there too but those aren’t nearly as fun to win as the ones I get to win when I’m leading a team. 

Here’s the thing: I’ve worked my ass off for every win, every medal, every goal. As a pro, you want to make it look easy, but it’s not. Ever since bantam, I like to be the first one at the rink and the last to leave, every time. I’m the first to admit that it’s a little nuts, this drive that I have when it comes to hockey, this force inside of me that just wants to keep pushing it higher and higher and higher just to see how far I can go. 

I’ve never wanted to be the player with an asterisk by his name. An exception to the rule. Kent Parson, you know, he’s pretty good for a gay dude. I just wanted to be good at hockey, no exceptions. And as the Captain, you don’t want to be a distraction either, a reason for the media to tear your team apart for something that has nothing to do with hockey. 

But after a while, I started to wonder: when is it enough? What’s the magic equation, when does x = the number of Cup wins that lets me be gay and play hockey without being completely defined by either of those things? 

You see, I stopped taking my own advice. You can’t win if you’re playing by someone else’s rules. If someone wants to look at everything I’ve done so far in my career and they still want to stick that asterisk by my name? That’s on them. That’s their problem. 

I’m sure I'm going to get a flood of questions once this article goes up so I’m going to cut to the chase just to get a few of the key ones out of the way. No, I promise you that I don’t want to be set up with everyone’s gay cousin. Trust me, my teammates have already tried that. Yes, to the question that you’re probably thinking right now and also no, I won’t say anything else about it, either here or elsewhere. What are you, an archeologist? I’m more of a math nerd, I don’t want to talk about ancient history. Also no, I never dated Taylor Swift -- we’re just good friends and tbh, it’s insanely flattering that you think she would ever date a dumb jock like me. 

And if you’re a gay kid sitting at home, who loves hockey, who thinks they might have it in them to go pro, you’re probably wondering: is it worth it? Can I do it? Is it hard? 

I’m not going to lie to you: it is hard. It’s harder than I ever could’ve imagined it would be, way back when I was just some dumb kid from Ithaca with his heart set on going pro. The truth is, for every You Can Play night and roll of rainbow stick tape, there’s still going to be about a hundred more homophobic garbage insults sent your way from other players, from fans, from your Twitter mentions. I’ve been called those names long before anyone knew that the names they were calling me were true. The culture has a long way to go before it’s ever gonna get rid of them. 

Is it worth it? That’s for you to decide. It was worth it for me. It still is. 

Can you do it? Hell yeah you can. I did. And if you need someone to talk to, shoot me a message at kvp90@lvaces.com. I’ll do my best to get back to you.

.

**@swoopsmyheart**  
Did kent parson just…..come out right after some NHL bigwig accidentally let it slip there’s already bn talks 2 waive the hall of fame waiting period 4 him when he retires?

 **@swoopsmyheart**  
And then wrote an article about it without mentioning the NHL HALL OF FAME EVEN ONCE? While also subtly digging at the shitty way the press treats Jack Zimmermann?

 **@swoopsmyheart**  
Holy shit what a fucking power move like, get wrecked gary bettman. 

**@lvacesfan90**  
Uh is no one gonna talk about the whole #PimmsConfirmed thing??? Cause??? Like that’s what he meant right??

 **@falconersfan56**  
Dude 2009 was literally a million years ago let the #Pimms thing die already

.

“So, I’m ancient history, huh?”

Kent props himself up on his elbow, looking down at Jack stretched across his bed, his laptop perched precariously on his chest as he reads through the article. 

His hair is flattened to one side from the way he slept on it, and he’s not wearing anything but a faded, barely stitched together pair of basketball shorts that Kent’s pretty sure he recognizes from when they were kids. Kent keeps his air conditioning running at a cool sixty-five degrees so he has no idea where the fuck Jack gets off, looking that half-naked and handsome. Whatever stylist told Jack that he could pull off a partial fade and a well-kept beard is an asshole and a genius, and Kent’s dick owes that stylist ten fucking fruit baskets at least. 

It was probably Alicia, come to think of it. Kent mentally nixes the fruit basket plan; maybe he’ll send her a nice merlot instead. 

“Well, you _are_ basically a fossil,” Kent chirps, kicking Jack in the shins lightly with a sock-covered toe. 

Jack tosses him a lazy smile, closing the laptop with a click and then placing it gently on the nearest nightstand. “Last I checked, Parse, you’re still a month older than me.” 

Kent toys with a loose thread in his linen sheets. “I just figured it would, I don’t know, keep the vultures off our backs for at least a little bit.” 

“They’re still getting mileage out of my divorce and that was four years ago,” Jack says dryly, lifting both of his impossibly muscled arms up above his head, clasping his hands behind his neck. It’s so stupid, how horny he is just fucking looking at Jack, like he’s sixteen again and accidentally catching sight of Jack’s shirt riding up during team dinners. “Trust me, there’s no stopping the vultures.” 

Kent lets out a small snort, lifting one shoulder in a half-shrug of concession because Jack’s not wrong about that, that’s for fucking sure. There’s still at least one or two intrepid hockey reporters who like to plan an annual trip down to Bittle’s bakeshop in Atlanta to try and wheedle a scandalous tell-all out of him. So far, it hasn’t worked yet and on Kent’s more charitable days, he tries to at least pretend to be surprised by this fact. 

Now, here’s the funny thing about Jack at thirty-four: he doesn’t shy away from the hard shit the way he used to, at least not all of the way. He’s still a stubborn asshole, sure, but going through a very public divorce followed by a thankfully private relapse shook a few things loose, made him more willing to look at himself head-on. It’ll be media hell once people find out that they’re together, that they’re _back_ together, but Kent already knows it’s nothing they can’t weather. 

But the thing is, though, their relationship is still a little new. After everything they’ve been through, together and apart, what they have now feels...not delicate, not breakable, but like it’s still something precious, anyways. Kent’s not ready to let the rest of the world in on it just yet. 

The corners of Jack’s lips quirk up slightly into a small, knowing smile, like he gets exactly what’s going through Kent’s head right now. “Doesn’t hurt to keep things a little quiet for a while, though. If only for the sake of our Oceanic teammates.” 

Kent groans softly, tipping his head forward into Jack’s chest. “Oh god, they know way too much embarrassing shit about us. And the press will _never_ leave them alone until they talk.” 

“Shoresy might finally figure out that we fucked in his beloved car,” Jack says, as he leans one hand down to run his fingers through the riot of hair that falls across Kent’s forehead. “But then we’ll be dead, so it won’t even matter.” 

Kent snorts, reaching out to scratch blunt nails against the side of Jack’s ribs, right where he’s ticklish. “Fuck Shoresy’s car, I’m more worried about Butters figuring out who broke his water bed.” 

“Well, that was your fault, I’m not taking the blame,” Jack huffs, smacking Kent’s wandering hand aside. “You and your pointy elbows.” 

Kent reaches out to brush Jack’s ticklish spot again in retaliation, smirking up at Jack triumphantly at the low whine that it elicits. “Zimms, that doesn’t even make any sense.”

Jack rolls his eyes, like he doesn’t give a shit if it makes sense, but the fingers running through Kent’s wild, tangled summer hair gentle, the coarse callus on his thumb brushing lightly against Kent’s hairline. 

Kent shivers at the unexpected shift, at the thoughtful look that’s crossed Jack’s face. “What’s cooking up in that overactive brain of yours, babe?” 

Jack’s quiet for a beat, and then he smiles, warm and easy, like the early morning sun. “Nothing. I’m just...I’m glad we’re here, is all.”

.

It started small, at first.

Two weeks after Jack got himself traded to the Seattle Schooners, he reached out to Kent with a text about how they should finally see about clearing the air, now that they’ll be seeing each other more regularly. 

It was, in typical Jack fashion, a precise, clumsily worded text message that managed to ooze Canadian stoicism all in less than two hundred characters. Jack signed it with his name, like he was writing a letter in the fucking 1800s, Jesus fucking Christ, and Kent knew as soon as he read it that Jack got talked into this by a therapist. 

Kent said yes out of morbid curiosity, mostly, and also a little bit because he thought it might be fun to watch Jack squirm in person. So, they had coffee a couple of times. It was awkward as shit, at first, and Kent could tell that Jack didn’t have any more faith in their prospective success than he did. 

They kept trying, anyways. Kent doesn’t know if that’s down to Jack’s near obsessive devotion to figuring his own shit out or Kent’s own soft, weak heart that just can’t seem to say no to Jack Zimmermann, but they pushed through the awkward parts. They aired out their dirty laundry and remembered how to make each other laugh again. God, but it’s always been so fucking easy to make each other laugh. 

It’s public knowledge that they’re friends again, that Jack’s switch to the Schooners tossed them back into each other’s lives with a little more regularity than the Eastern Conference would allow. 

The shift from “friends” to “maybe there’s still something more to this than friendship,” well, that part’s pretty recent. They’ve taken it slow; Kent _likes_ that they’ve taken it slow, likes that they’re putting in the time to build up their foundations right. 

Back in the Q, everything happened so fast with him and Jack. They were fiercely, absurdly competitive from the second that they met; they couldn’t stand each other all the way up until the point when they figured out how well they flowed together on the ice, and then just as quickly, they flipped all the way around to best friends. 

From there, it was just a quick hop from best friends to making out in the backseat of Jack’s car after practice. What a pair of idiots they were, acting like if they didn’t put a name to the impossible tenderness shared between them when no one else was looking, neither of them would get hurt. 

There was something reckless and wild about the way he used to love Jack, back then. Back when they were just two dumb kids jamming their fingers against a hot stove, high on adrenaline for every time that they didn’t get burnt. 

Except Jack was high on more than just adrenaline, and in the end, they both got burnt. 

And then it just stopped. A door slammed shut in Kent’s face but all that love was still spilling out of him, desperate to find its way home again. 

Sure, he moved on, he fell for other guys, but there was never anyone else who just _got_ him, not the way Jack did. After a while, Kent started to figure that maybe he was remembering it all wrong, that nostalgia had painted a rose-colored film over the good parts right along with the bad parts. 

But the truth is, the reality of loving Jack now, after everything, is somehow better than any of those old, faded memories combined.

.

Kent kicks up his feet on the porch bench, leaning back against the sun-warmed wood paneling of Jack’s lake house as he scrolls through his notifications. His mentions have been a total fucking shitshow ever since the Player’s Tribune posted his article - nothing that he didn’t expect, sure, and he knows that the Aces have a particularly sturdy and well-paid intern filtering through the inbox of his official email account to get through the worst of it.

“Anything new, Parse?” Jack’s voice rings out from the doorway, where he’s leaning up against the doorjamb looking like some sort of LL Bean advertisement in swim trunks and a short-sleeved henley. Kent’s mouth goes dry because honestly, what the fuck, Zimmermann. 

He locks his phone and tosses it to the floor without a second thought. “Well, Zimms, I’ll have you know that according to many fun stories on the internet, I love getting gang banged by the entire roster of the Pittsburgh Penguins.” 

Jack just wrinkles his nose in response. 

“I know, right?” Kent says, slouching backwards into the bench, widening the v of his legs as Jack walks the short few feet from the doorway to stand between Kent’s legs, leaning into him slightly. “I get way more dick in these stories than I’ve ever gotten in my life. Makes me feel like I gotta catch up.” 

Jack just raises a single, skeptical eyebrow, but Kent can tell from the flush crawling up the side of his neck that he’s at least a little turned on thinking about it. “With the Pittsburgh Penguins?” 

Kent scoffs, even as he reaches out with his right foot to hook his ankle around Jack’s. “Fuck no. I’m not fucking Geno with a ten foot pole. Sid, though…” 

Jack moves too fast for Kent to register what’s happening until Jack’s scooped him up off the bench and into his arms, fireman style. 

Kent squawks loudly. “What the fuck, Zimms.” 

“Shitty just texted, he and Lardo are about ten minutes away. Figured you might need a cooling off before they get here,” Jack says conversationally, like he’s not currently striding towards the dock with Kent slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. 

“You’re such a dick, Zimms,” Kent huffs, for all that he’s actually very much appreciating the view of Jack’s finely sculpted ass in these forest green swim trunks. 

It’s the last thought that he has before Jack goes to launch him into the lake but unfortunately for Jack, Kent has two older brothers and knows exactly how to turn and pull on Jack’s arm so he can take Jack down with him. 

They topple into the lake in a tangle of limbs, Jack’s knee accidentally catching Kent in the side. The lake water is like a cold slap in the face at first but by the time he breaks to the surface, he’s adjusted to it and he treads water lightly as Jack tries to blink lake water out of his eyes. 

Kent sends a small, surface level splash in Jack’s direction. “That go the way you expected it to, babe?”

“Merde,” Jack groans. He cocks his head to the side, shaking it like he’s trying to release waterlog. “Not really, no. Guess I deserved that.” 

Kent swims until they’re close enough to touch, and then Jack reaches out for his hip, anchoring him in place. Jack’s shirt is soaking wet and sticking to his chest, so Kent has to peel it away just enough that he can place his palm to Jack’s navel, making Jack’s gaze go dark and hooded. 

“If you wanted to cool me off, babe, joining a wet t-shirt contest was not the way to do it,” Kent murmurs. 

“You’re the worst,” Jack says, with no rancor. “It’s _my_ birthday, you know.” 

“And this is my present for your birthday,” Kent says, pressing a smirk into the corner of Jack’s mouth. “So thoughtful of you, Zimms.” 

Jack turns his face just-so, leaning into it like he’s about to make this a proper kiss, right up until there’s a sudden, metallic jangling noise from above that startles them apart. 

“Hey lovebirds, could you maybe not fuck in the lake? Fish have to eat there you know.” Lardo’s distinctly unimpressed tone rings out from somewhere above them. 

When Kent peers upwards towards the dock, it’s to find Shitty and Lardo standing over them with amused looks, all while Shitty holds his car keys aloft, jangling them like he’s trying to get the attention of a cat. Christ. And this man’s a highly respected lawyer, these days. 

Jack shoots him a long-suffering look that Kent’s not buying for a single fucking second. Like he doesn’t know how much Jack loves it when Shitty and Lardo give him shit. 

Kent sends another splash in Jack’s direction. “After you, birthday boy. We've got a party to throw.”

.

The party is loud. Or, well, Shitty is loud and Tater is loud and between the two of them, the decibel level would get the cops called on them if they were anywhere remotely close to anyone else’s house. They discovered a slim volume of dirty sea shanties early in the evening and have been jointly serenading the whole party ever since. Bob is holding court in the corner with Kara, the woman who owns the golf course that Jack frequents, while the two of them bicker over the proper way to play quarters.

Kara’s wife, Cynthia, is in the middle of challenging one of Jack’s teammates on the Schooners to flip cup, a venture that Kent already knows won’t end well for him. Especially if Lardo gets involved, which she will, because even in her thirties, Lardo will not pass up an opportunity to destroy a bro at flip cup. 

Jack and Alicia have their heads bent close together on the couch, chatting softly, looking content to just be in each other’s company. 

Kent grabs himself a beer and then slips out the front door to the porch. He forgoes his usual bench for the rocking chair in the corner, settling down into it with a small, satisfied sigh. From here, the sounds from inside the house are a low, steady rumble, coupled with the distant lap of water against the shore. It’s nice, taking this breather, not feeling the need to be the life of the party all of the time. 

It’ll be different, once he’s back in Vegas, but here, in middle-of-nowhere Washington, the only eyes on Kent Parson are from the only person he ever really wants to see. 

Speaking of. Kent tilts his chin up, casting his gaze in Jack’s direction. “Whatcha doing looming on the porch, birthday boy?”

“Looking for you,” Jack says simply. “I had an idea.” 

Kent grabs hold of the neck of his beer bottle, leaning back to a long sip, knowing full well that Jack will be following the lines of his throat as he does it. Sometimes, it is worth it to make Jack wait a little. Worth it to draw things out of him, to get him to really say what he means to say. Finally, Kent sets the bottle down behind him on the porch railing with a small clink. “Oh? What kind of idea?” 

Jack stops just short of the rocking chair to lean against the porch railing. “Papa and Maman are currently slow dancing to Tater and Shitty’s sea shanties.” 

Kent barks out a laugh. “I’m sure that’s real romantic. And? What’s your point?” 

Jack gives him a look, like he knows what Kent is doing. “When was the last time you and I danced?” 

“Prom night,” Kent answers promptly. “We ditched the dance and drove my truck out to a bluff overlooking the water.” 

It’s a good memory, for Kent, one of the soft, rose-tinted ones that he thought of often in the first few years after Jack’s OD. Just the two of them, standing on a cliff like they were on the edge of the world, dancing like nothing could touch them. 

He wonders what that memory is, for Jack. Is it something that Jack could let himself enjoy, or was he too in his head that night, the way he was so much of the time back then? 

Those old memories were good, for Kent. But he’s not sure if he needs to revisit them. 

Jack smiles; in the low porch light, silhouette highlighted by a dull amber, he almost looks golden. “That was almost twenty years ago. Don’t you think we’re overdue for another?” 

“The sea shanties don’t really have a beat,” Kent points out. “And we don’t have my car radio.” 

Jack just holds out his hand, like he’s Humphrey fucking Bogart, and lets out a small huff. “C’mon, Kenny, you can’t use your imagination?” 

Kent ducks his head, unexpectedly overcome with a surge of emotion, an overwhelming devotion that tightens his chest sometimes at just the sight of Jack. It’s fucking insane, how he went so long thinking he’d never feel this again. 

He grabs hold of Jack’s hand, lets Jack pull him to his feet, lets Jack’s hands fall to his hips to steady him. Kent reaches up with one hand to cup Jack’s jaw, fingers scratching through his beard lightly. “I got a better idea, Zimms. Why don’t we go show Bob and Leesh how it’s done, huh?” 

Jack blinks for a second, like he’s mulling it over, and then something in his shoulders loosen. Kent can see the precise moment when Jack makes up his mind about it, and then he leans into Kent’s palm, turning his head to press a kiss to the base of it. “That _is_ a better idea.” 

“Well, someone’s gotta be the brains of this operation.” Kent brushes his nose against Jack’s, before swallowing whatever smart remark Jack was about to chirp with a kiss. 

Jack knocks their foreheads together when they break apart, his steady hands still at Kent’s hips, holding him in place in a loose hug. “This was a good birthday, Kenny.” 

“Ain’t over yet, babe,” Kent says in a low hush, for all that they can barely hear each other over the shouting coming from indoors. 

“Still,” Jack insists, and there’s more to this conversation, probably, some difficult, complex emotion that Jack’s trying to get across, but the porch in the middle of Jack's 35th birthday party isn’t the time for it. If he knows Jack at all, it’ll all come out slowly, over the course of the next few days. They’ll get there eventually. They have the time, these days. 

For now, Jack just presses a kiss to Kent’s temple, before grabbing hold of Kent’s hand and pressing their palms together in one swift motion. “C’mon, Kenny, let’s go dance.”


End file.
